


fight for me

by mayor_crumblepot



Series: valeyne / baby batjokes tumblr fills [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Kissing, M/M, Minor Violence, Protective Bruce Wayne, and i mean that seriously, because yknow thats how it goes, bruce gets into and out of trouble all on his own not to worry, kissing feat. blood, so glad THATS a tag that already exists, this aint whump at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 03:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14416797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayor_crumblepot/pseuds/mayor_crumblepot
Summary: bruce doesn't like when people are ugly, especially when they're talking about his boyfriend, so he puts a real quick stop to it. with his fists.he fights somebody for badmouthing jerome and jerome could not be any more pleased





	fight for me

Jerome is the basis for plenty of the rumors that go around his school. He does come up with his own fair share of rumors regarding other people, but there’s even more circulating that are about him. 

_I heard that Jerome Valeska killed his mother._

_Jerome had a brother but he killed him, too._

_He was born in the circus, he doesn’t even know who his father is._

_Somebody told me that Jerome has a black book in his locker, filled with the names of people he wants to make sure are dead when he finally snaps and goes on a rampage._

Some of them hold truth, and some of them don’t. Jerome isn’t particularly interested in pointing out which ones are which; he likes the mystery that it imposes upon him. He likes that it keeps people from trying to start fights with him, even after incidents where his big mouth gets him into trouble. Never before has someone raised a hand to him at school, and he’s never had to defend himself. He’d count that as a victory. 

What he seems to be somewhat unaware of is that people talk about him when he isn’t around. Groups of well-to-do seniors sit at their own little lunch tables, talking too loudly and laughing too harshly, entertaining themselves with pointless cruelty that they could never dish out if they were face to face with those they talk about. And one day, Bruce is lucky enough to hear them talking about Jerome. 

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t kill his mom,” one of the girls says, head held high, “she probably just ditched him when she saw what a freak he was.” 

“You’re giving her too much credit,” and this boy eats with his mouth open, smacking on something that smells just as foul as his manners, “she was probably a giant slut— didn’t even realize she lost her psycho kid until it was too late. She didn’t go back for him because, let’s be honest, who would go back for  _him_?” 

Bruce knows that cruelty in teenagers is likely a deflection of their own insecurity— there’s something they feel uncomfortable about within themselves, but when people laugh at their cruelty, it makes them feel that much better. It directs attention away from themselves, toward someone or something they don’t have to be responsible for. Even though Bruce understands this, even though he’s found himself doing the same thing more than once, it doesn’t assuage his anger. 

“You’re all cowards,” he says, puffing up his chest and advancing on the table, “talking about someone who isn’t around to defend themselves.” 

“You can’t be serious,” the boy has swallowed his food, but there’s still something so upsetting about his mouth, “nobody gives a shit about Valeska.” Bruce stands his ground, feet planted firmly against the ugly tiles, hands at his sides, “Except you, apparently.” 

“He came to defend Valeska’s honor,” another girl says, head propped up on her hand, “that’s sweet.” 

“Listen, Bruce, how about this,” there’s something inside of Bruce that bristles at the implication that this boy has the right to bargain with him. There’s nothing to bargain with, there’s no stakes on Bruce’s side. “You walk away and keep your mouth shut, and I won’t show you what happens when—” Really, Bruce has never liked people who are so full of themselves. 

Bruce rears back, landing a solid punch into the boy’s cheek. Underneath the fatty skin, he can feel the boy’s teeth clash, and when the boy spits out blood afterward, Bruce feels proud of himself. He doesn’t expect the boy to lunge toward him, and now it’s a real fight, punches flying and shoes squeaking on waxed tile— Bruce intends to win. 

* * *

Jerome feels subtly guilty for being late to lunch; but he’d left his keys in his math class and he  _really_  needed those, but then his locker was on the other side of the building and he  _really_  needed to go there, too. He needs to work on his time management, now that he has someone to manage his time for.

It’s a nice day, when it comes down to the details. He managed to pass a quiz he hadn’t prepared for, he’d remembered his headphones  _and_  his phone charger that morning, and the weather is nice enough that he could probably convince Bruce to take lunch on the hood of his car. Jerome takes stairs two at a time, upbeat music turned up loud enough in his ears that he can’t hear the din of the people around him, added pep in his step as he looks out at the cafeteria. 

He looks out at the cafeteria and sees a fight, a knock down drag out fight with blood on the tile and screaming bystanders. Normally, this would be Jerome’s speed, his preferred form of lunchtime entertainment, except that’s  _his_  boyfriend down there, holding onto the front of another student’s shirt. That’s his boyfriend with blood on his knuckles and his backpack strewn across the floor— the other boy’s face looks like hamburger meat, but there’s blood dripping from Bruce’s nose, too. 

Jerome takes steps three at a time, now, pushing people out of the way because  _oh, holy shit._  He nearly knocks some people down trying to get to the fight itself, breathless when he sees Bruce shove his knee against the other boy’s chest, knocking the air right out of him. 

“Apologize,” Bruce says, aggressive and threatening with his arm halfway cocked back. 

“Okay,” the boy manages to speak around the bitten down parts of his tongue, around the blood in his mouth, and seems almost  _thankful_ to see Jerome standing there on the sidelines, “I’m sorry. I won’t say anything again, I swear, I—” Bruce drops the collar of his shirt, letting the boy’s head hit the floor roughly. 

“I didn’t realize you were here,” and suddenly, Bruce is sheepish, almost demure as he picks up his backpack and tries to wipe away the blood from his nose. 

“Big fight’s pretty hard to miss.”

“It wasn’t  _that_  big.”

“I saw it from the second floor,” Jerome tells him, ushering them away from the slowly dissipating scene, out toward the parking lot, “it was a big deal, Brucie. What the fuck did he say about you that got you so—”

“They were talking about you,” with his hand pressed up against his nose, Bruce sounds nasally and much younger than he is; a child bearing the conviction of a grown man, “I told him to stop, he wouldn’t listen, and I guess I could have discussed it more diplomatically, but to be completely transparent,” Bruce leans against Jerome’s car, dropping his backpack on the ground next to it, “I didn’t want to. I wanted to hit him, so I did.” 

“You fought a guy for me?” 

“Yeah, I couldn’t just—” Jerome surges up against Bruce, kissing him and holding his face in his hands. All Jerome can taste is blood, but he doesn’t mind at all; and when Bruce wraps his arms around Jerome’s shoulders and kisses him back, it’s apparent he doesn’t mind, either. 

“Brucie,” he says, breathing in gratefully, “you know I don’t care, right? About what other people say?”

“You might not,” Bruce kisses him again, smearing more red over his lips, “but it would be ungentlemanly of me not to stand up for you.” 

“And this isn’t ungentlemanly?” Jerome runs his hand over Bruce’s arm, where his fingers have travelled up into Jerome’s sweater, clutching at skin and leaving tiny red streaks. Bruce’s thumb rubs over Jerome’s bottom rib, dipping down into his waist, pulling him closer. 

“It’s a careful balance,” he shrugs, kissing along Jerome’s neck and jaw. Jerome can’t really argue with that, even if he wanted to. 

When Jerome goes to class later, his entire neck is splotched with red, smudged lip-marks of faded blood. His lips are the same color, the redness spreading out from the edges of his lips and onto the surrounding skin. It’s painfully obvious Bruce has gotten to him, and he doesn’t care who knows. 

And, after some inspection in the mirror, Jerome can’t deny that the red lips are a pretty good look for him.

**Author's Note:**

> is that title a nod to heathers: the musical? ahaha, yEAH i have no control
> 
> yknow, i wrote a whole nygmobblepot au for that. not too long ago. that's a thing that's on here, too. wack. 
> 
> i'm on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


End file.
